


the two of us in the unknown

by spheeris1



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Love, Minor Violence, Sex, etc. - Freeform, thoughts and feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-05-29 14:55:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15075572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spheeris1/pseuds/spheeris1
Summary: multi-part // eve p.o.v. // set somewhere in the future // They have a routine that borders on a relationship, but not really. But maybe.





	1. just like always

**Author's Note:**

> Since I seem to really like writing about these two in this future I've created for them, I decided to put all the pieces together in one place. Sorry to lose comments along the way, but thanks to any and all who took a moment to say something nice. It is appreciated.
> 
> Title comes from 'Apple Tree Girl' by Tancred.

/ / /

She's late.

But she usually is, you're not sure why it still manages to annoy you. It does, though. She's annoying – always has been, always will be. Almost like a child, grinning to get away with things, that's the kind of irritating that she is.

Even now, beyond the age when such actions are considered cute.

She's not cute. Not even close. Cute implies something tame, something soft and cuddly. And you know that's not what she is – never has been, never will be. She's good at playing the part, true, but she's anything but soft. Underneath all that gloss is granite and you pity anyone who doesn't see past the facade.

And yet, when she finally comes around the corner and smirks at you, eyes landing on you like a lightning bolt – still shocking you after all this time – you can't help but find her endearing.

Endearing and dangerous.  
Just like always.

/

“You ordered without me?”  
“Yes. I ordered for you, though.”  
“Think you know me so well, hmm?”  
“Yes.”

Steam rises off the little cup, strong and bitter to the taste, and a small plate of cookies between the two of you – half dipped in chocolate, one with pistachios, all of them buttery and crumbling.

“It troubles me that I cannot surprise you like I used to.”  
“Doesn't trouble me. It helps me sleep well at night.”  
“Are you having trouble sleeping, milaya? I could help with that...”

Hearing her speak in Russian is lovely. You never tell her that. Chances are she knows it already, she's a master of paying attention. So are you, of course. That's why you work well together. Both of you, studying while speaking, watching and waiting.

“Let's stick to business.”  
“You sure?”  
“Mmm-hmm.”

And so you are – sure, that is. You trade information within the guise of casual conversation, two ladies in nice clothes, chatting away. Maybe one of you is more fashionable than the other, maybe it isn't you. But you both blend into the general cafe crowd, just average enough to catch a glance or two but nothing more.

“Let's go see a movie.”  
“A movie?”  
“Yes. I want to spend time with you.”  
“Spend time with me...?”  
“What are you, a parrot? Stop repeating me.”

She's giving you that look, the one that tells you that you should have caught on by now, and it's not that you are dense. You want to stick to the business at hand, that's all. That's what you want to do. It is totally what you want to do. All business and nothing else – that's what you want, right?

“Okay. You choose the film.”

She smiles at you, delighted, and proceeds to scoop all the cookies into her eager hands.

/

Somewhere along the way, after alliances fell apart and more people died and lives were threatened and relationships ended and tears were shed... Somewhere along the way, you and she were no longer just orbiting each other; you were colliding, crashing, and out of the rubble you both emerged.

You, formally separated from your husband and drinking a touch too much, still a woman stumbling in a world of spies – smart enough to make it this far, too smart for her own good as well.  
Her, set adrift and still absolutely wicked, but desperate for some kind of structure, some kind of order to balance out the madness – talented beyond belief, too good at murder to be free, though.

So, somewhere along the way and days and months after, here you both are: working for some government entity, all shadows and secrets, meeting every so often to talk in code, your gazes as sharp as ever – especially upon one another – and always with peril hovering over your respective shoulders.

Somewhere along the way, even with all you've lost and all you've done...

...you have gotten the life you always craved.

/

You listen to her chuckle at whatever the man says on screen. You watch her “accidentally” knock over a boy's popcorn and catch her grin. You don't move your hand away when she makes to hold it.

Her fingers are smooth and slightly cool. It must be the night air. Or maybe you are quite warm, you tend to run hot.

Her touch feels good. It always does. You don't tell her so, but she probably knows. She knows you pretty well by now.

“Let's go back to your room.”  
“What about the movie?”  
“What about it?”

This could go on forever. God, she loves to answer questions with questions. And you hate giving in, you always have – to anyone, not just her. You like getting your way. So does she, though, and it can make for a damn long night. But it's been five months – not that you've been counting or anything, you've been busy as well – and you believe her when she says that she wants to spend time with you.

You believe her because you want to spend time with her, too.

“No.”  
“No?”  
“Let's go to your room. It's probably nicer anyway.”

/

The first time was strange. Still overwhelming and still sensual, but completely and utterly strange.

You couldn't turn your head off, not really, not even with her breath coasting over your lips and her fingertips dipping past the waist of your pants. You were flush with desire and shame, to the point that your stomach felt like it was pitching – you on the ship of these long-standing urges, about to capsize – and you didn't trust her to save you.

You still don't. Not really.

But that first time was forever ago and you are better with being present, with living in the moment. And you watch her pour a drink – for you, not for herself – as you toe off your shoes, as you cross the room and toss your jacket onto the chair. The glass feels good, feels solid in your grasp and she leans in as you sip, pressing her mouth to where your pulse jumps.

She feels good. Feels solid. Feels real.

“Mmmm... are you wearing it?”

You can hear the amusement in her voice and you can't help but laugh in return, rolling your eyes even as you tilt your neck so she can have more access to you.

“Fuck off.”

She takes the drink away, sits it somewhere, and she guides you back, back until your body lands on her bed, and it still causes you to freeze – just a little bit – to see her looming over you. She's so powerful, so determined, so deadly. She's just so much, so much of everything, and you are still just a little bit unnerved by her.

Unnerved and turned on.  
Just like always.

/

You've cataloged a million facts, compared them to a million more fictions, and maybe you've figured her out. At least partially. At least once in a while.

You carry snapshots of her in your mind, moments embossed against your memory that you can pull up at will – blood and sweat on her face, her stern grip upon your neck, that thigh between your legs.

You take her in, right this second, still fascinated as she finally unfurls beneath you. The way she only gives in after she's had you, the manner in which she tenses and releases, the wild and nervous look she gets in her eyes when you make her come, like she still cannot wrap her head around the reality of you... like you take her breath away, like you absolutely terrify her...

You think that maybe this is her true face.

At least some of the time.

/

“We should add a night or two next time.”

She says this, often. You think that it is possible that she misses you. You don't want to think about that possibility too much, though.

“Maybe. If neither one of us has to cut and run.”

She nods her head, lets the vagueness hang there between you both. She is staring past you, into a dawn that has already broken. You think that it is possible that you miss her, too.

And you check that all your papers are in order – passport, directions, verifications. And she puts her lipstick on, replacing what you smeared off the evening before. And the coffee grows cold and the sheets lose their heat and she locks the door behind you.

“Have, uh, a good time in Italy.”

She smiles as she loosely holds the postcard, using it to fan herself as the temperature slowly rises. And you can't stop your eyelids from fluttering shut when she kisses your cheek.

“Of course. You should come with me, it's beautiful in Vernazza this time of year.”

You should. You want to. You kind-of want to go with her everywhere. Kind-of, sometimes. The rest of the time, though, you want just this – the two of you saying less, doing more, an arm's length away from something bigger, but, perhaps, contentedly so.

“Oh, I bet it is.”

You grin at her, knowingly, and she winks at you as she slips into the taxi. You watch her go, standing there far longer than you need to. You watch those tail-lights fade from view and you feel your muscles relax – in relief, in boredom – and you glance at your ticket, taking you back to England, cold and rainy and ready for your arrival.

You've got a job to do. You are saving the world. This is all very important stuff, this work that you do that no one can know about.

The phone buzzes in your pocket and you shuffle things around to grab it. You don't know the number, but you know that it is her. She's a fan of burner phones, even if she is near to impossible to track these days.

_'Well, have you changed your mind yet?'_

She's a lot like you. She loves to get her way, thinks she deserves to forever get the outcome she wants. It's annoying. She's annoying. Some things never change, after all.

And yet... Vernazza probably is quite lovely this time of year... and goodness knows that breaking the rules is how you got here in the first place...

She's so damn good at getting you to break rules. That's annoying, too. Then again, maybe you're the annoying one for always wanting what she wants as well. Maybe you are just annoyed with yourself.

_'See you soon.'_

But you both get what you want, in the end.  
Just like always.

/ / /


	2. where you always want to be

/ / /

You trace the contours of this bruise, the one left to darken on her side, and she shivers and she swats your hand away. You lean down and kiss her lips and she smiles into you. You can still taste the sweat of wherever she has been, whatever she has been doing, and your mind drifts for a moment – maybe there was a fight, perhaps they did not go quietly into that not-so-good night – but she brings you back to the present with a teasing bite to your bottom lip.

Back to this bed. Back to this room.  
Back to her bare torso, pale skin.  
Back to where you always want to be.

/

The winter is so long in London. Cold but never cold enough. Damp but never covered in snow. Sometimes, if you stare long enough, the fog looks like clouds of ice hanging over your head and if you could touch it, it would shatter down on your head.

You blow your hair out of your face – it's falling out of the bun you put it into, straying and annoying you – and you keep moving this sander over these wooden floors. Sanding and then staining. Staining and then sleeping on the couch. Sleeping and then waking up at ungodly hours to check your emails, to trace patterns and find leads, to take your orders and then pass them along.

_I miss you._

Written in the back of this book, sent by post, a battered copy of 'Journey By Moonlight' and you've never read it, so you'll settle into its pages later.

And no, she doesn't sign her name. And no, she doesn't tell you where she is, not really – the brat. And no, she won't be coming to your house any time soon – your lovely, old home. And no, you don't go chasing after her unless there is work to be done – no matter what she's feeling, what she's wanting.

_I miss you, too._

No matter what you might be feeling or wanting, too.

/

Sometimes, you watch her clean up, watch her wipe blood off of her face. It looks so wrong and so right on her, a smattering of red on her cheeks, a scarlet brushstroke on her brow. She catches the reflection of your concentrated stare in the mirror and smirks at you.

“Oh Eve, always wanting to sneak a peek...”

You roll your eyes and toss the file down onto the table nearest to her. She doesn't stop watching you, but you are already turning around, already walking away.

“Why don't you stay, hmm? We can talk while I shower.”  
“I'm going to be late for my flight.”  
“So? Be late.”  
“Your work might be done for the night, but mine is not.”

You've just reached the door and suddenly there she is, right behind you, and you hate how it still makes you anxious – even after everything – but you rein in that flutter of tension and you turn around into her body because she has left you no room. Personal space isn't something she thinks about during times like these, after a kill; she's caught in a swirl of her own power and the nature of mortality and so on and so forth.

She's told you a little bit about it, what she thinks when she kills someone.  
You've decoded and analyzed the rest, it's part of your work, it's kind-of your life now.

“What?”

Your voice is trained to be bored. You've worked hard on the sound of it, the inflections.

“Stay with me. For a bit.”

Her eyes are lit up, embers banked deep and flames rising, and you can smell smoke on her clothes, ashes and death, and yet she is so alive – so very very alive – in front of you and you don't want to enjoy being with her like this, you like it better when the ground is even between you both.

And yet.  
And yet.  
And yet.

You reach up and slide the pad of your thumb over her cheek, catching color as you go, and she topples into you, all hot desire and need and eagerness, and what's one more night in Vienna anyway?

What's wrong with giving in if she's giving in as well?

/

“Oh, hello, Eve, how are you? I am doing well, just thought of you and had to call...”

It's very proper English, very posh. She's so good with languages, with accents. A master of disguise, really, but in the simplest of ways. And you sigh as you prop yourself up against the kitchen counter, bottle of wine open and yesterday's leftovers heating in the microwave.

“...I'm sat by the ocean, it's terribly late, and you know, I should be sleeping but what's a girl to do when she's alone, by the sea, but reach out to good friends like you...”

You strain to hear the waves behind her voice. You close your eyes and picture it – her shoes off, coastal breeze toying with her hair, face serene in the darkness. You grip the phone tightly in your hand, to keep yourself from stopping this silly message and calling her back.

“...oh, you'd love it here, Eve... you really would...”

The microwave beeps at you and you open your eyes again and a chill rolls through your body – the damn heater has gone out again – and you put the phone down, back to reality, back to your cold house and your leftover food and a cheap bottle of white. Back to paperwork and notes, back to whatever political upheaval comes next, back to saving the world.

_...you'd love it here, Eve..._

You eat and you work and you tuck this woolen blanket around you. You curl up on this couch and feel your eyelids start to droop.

_...you really would..._

“I know... god, I know...”

/

Sometimes, a knot forms in your gut when she doesn't show up. She's always late. You're used to that, but it is different when something goes wrong. Like a cat, she's got nine goddamn lives, but when one day turns into two and when people start calling for updates that you cannot give and you pace the hotel room floor and you can't relax – well, by the time she waltzes in, you want to smack her and kiss her at the same time.

She laughs at you. She sinks onto your bed.  
She looks unharmed. She looks refreshed.

“Out with it. Now.”

She falters, just a tad, at the tone you direct towards her – a child in trouble, a whisper of a pout upon her mouth. Oh, you want to hit her more than kiss her, right this second, you want to strangle her.

“A policeman might have shown up, unexpectedly. I took care of it.”  
“Took care of it how?”  
“Easily. Cleanly.”

You make a call, giving information and asking for some as well. It's going to be a long day, making sure that her version of 'clean' is actually clean enough. She is good at what she does, of course, but that doesn't mean she is perfect. No one is, after all.

“You have a room, just down the hall.”

You aren't inviting her to stay. You are angry, for more reasons that you care to think about, and she knows it, she knows and she understands.

“Okay.”

The games are over, the ones you both used to play – the ones that hurt you, that hurt her, that hurt so many others, too – and neither one of you has to mess around anymore. You both have lives that go on without the other, even with all the ways the two of you overlap. You get that things are dangerous, you get that this isn't normal, you get it and so does she and she leaves your room and you wait for the click before you start breathing again.

/

The water is warm, no longer hot, but it still feels good.  
Good enough to not get up yet, head laid back and book long forgotten as you drift off, thoughts like loose string – you get a hold of one, then it floats away again.

You might have fallen asleep there, you might have drown, too, but you don't have time to ponder that because you hear it – faint but there – the sound of someone downstairs.

And you are not like you once were.

You have weapons everywhere these days. Knives you can wield. Guns you can shoot. A few more things, innocent otherwise but deadly if need be, and you tilt your head, the bathwater moving around you slowly. You listen and there it is, soft but there, a step that creaks. Better than any motion-sensor.

You slip out as quietly as you can and you unhook the knife that rests under the edge of this paint-chipped tub and you press into the wall behind the door and your muscles are ready, as ready as they'll ever be – you've not had to actually use them, not like this, but you are ready to... if you have to...

There's a knock on the door. And you freeze.

“I tried calling first, just so you know. And then I was in town, so I just showed up. Don't try to kill me, okay? Recovery is so boring.”

You don't even think about it, you fling the door open to find her standing there, and your heart is in your throat – needless anticipation buzzing inside of you, beating so hard it makes your head hurt – and her smile, which is pleased, falls away from her lips and you watch her features darken as she takes you in, gaze trailing over you like –

Oh, that's right. You're naked and wet and holding a knife.

“Go get my robe. Room next to this one.”

She glances up at you then and everything in her eyes says that you don't need a robe, not now, not with her here, and you like it – you like how much she wants you – but you turn the knife around in your hand and press the handle into her chest.

“Please.”

Her smile returns then, brighter than the sun, and she makes a show of bowing her head in acquiescence.

“Sure.”

One last up-and-down from her and then she is bringing your robe to you, watching you wrap yourself up and then following you back down to the kitchen. You offer her something to drink and she declines, you offer her food and she happily agrees, and you realize that she is here – in London, for the first time in ages, maybe it hasn't been since the beginning of all this.

She's here, in your half-finished home. With all your tools and books. With all your accumulated things, boxes still packed and a tarp still draped over the dining table. With your maps and notebooks of killers, of murder and mayhem. She's in there, somewhere, written down in blue ink – the one who led you down this twisted primrose path. Not exactly the woman sitting near you now, but still somehow the same.

She tells you about her latest job. You ask about a few details.  
She stretches and yawns. You turn on the television.  
She kisses you. You kiss her in return.

_I miss you.  
I miss you, too._

She wraps her legs around you. You press your hips into her.  
She tugs on your hair. You slide your tongue into her mouth.  
She is so wet, so warm. You are so, so doomed.

_You'd love it here, you really would.  
I know, god, I know._

She comes with your fingers circling her clit, pressing down harder the more she rises up to meet you, and you ache, you ache so much that you think you will go mad, and her moan fills up this room, fills up this half-finished house, fills you up, fills you right up, and you barely give her any time to catch up before you are shifting onto her thigh and grinding against her, like a goddamn teenager in heat, but it doesn't matter, not with her hands finding you and guiding you, encouraging you, her voice hot in your ears – “...yes, baby, please don't stop...” – and there, at the edge of your mind, is that thought you keep shoving around, keep shutting up, keep turning away until it leaves you alone, at least for a while...

_Stay with me. For a bit._

...jesus, you'd stay with her forever if she'd ask it, if you could, if they were anyone else in the world but who they are. And you shudder and shake and her nails are in your skin and her lips are on your lips and when you look at her, you are back to where you always want to be.

/ / /


	3. danse macabre

/ / /

She takes hold of your hand, fingers interlocked as she struts beside you. God, she does love to preen in public – a fucking peacock, indigo feathers spread wide – but you knew this about her, so you can't be too bothered by it and besides, you don't want to ruin this night.

This night – a night out, to be exact – is a rarity for the two of you. For one evening, death is in the rear-view and all other tasks have been put on hold. She'll be gone tomorrow, flying to places you don't ask about, and you'll be back to your own life – to all the spaces that consist of just you and your intellect and your work and your own brand of madness.

_'You're just as bad as me...'_ she loves to say, whispering it in your ear like it is some kind of secret, even to yourself. Perhaps it was once that, a side of you that you didn't like to acknowledge, but now you are a woman without pretense. And no, you are not as bad as her – you don't kill people, nor do you want to.

But you don't mind her killing people.

As long as you can make sense of it. As long as you tell your heart that they deserve it. As long as it is a job and not for fun, as long as there is a paper trail for you to follow. As long as you want this life – a life with no set hours, with danger on your doorstep, with her... well, you have to figure out the ways in which to sell a white lie or two to your own head.

But you are mentally drifting now and she finally notices, grips your hand to cause discomfort, and you shoot her an angry glare. She looks at you so pointedly, eyebrows raised.

“Just so you know, these tickets were not cheap. You could at least pay attention to me.”

You roll your eyes at her.

“Everyone else is looking at you, one less stare won't kill you.”

She lets go of your hand then, as petulant as ever, and crosses her arms. She doesn't walk ahead of you, which is quite the achievement, but she is ignoring you. _Pretty peacock, colorful enough to catch anyone but the one she wants..._

...and yes, okay, you were thinking of other things – the things you tell yourself to not think of at all, not if you want to keep all of this up – and so you were the one being the dick, falling into the maze of your mind and not enjoying what is right in front of you, who is right in front of you...

Fine. _Fine._

You move quickly and get in front of her, palms already up in a placating manner.

“I'm sorry. Truly. You know I never stop thinking, about everything, and I actually don't want to think about anything other than you tonight.”

She watches you, but you know so many of her tells now. You know the dark from the light, the false from the wicked truth. You know that her wants outweigh so many annoyances, help to shuttle her past small grievances. Does she forget? Oh no, never. But does she forgive?

Probably not. At least, not until she feels reparations have been made. And goodness knows – after stabbings and mistakes and so many other roadblocks – you are very good at making amends.

That's why you don't hold back, not anymore. You don't hold back in this lobby, surrounded by suits and ties and haute couture and old men with their old wives, and you reach up to cup her cheek, you draw closer to her, feel the heat of her body behind these ridiculously expensive clothes, and you press a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“You are all I see.”

She slowly exhales at the sound of your voice so near and then slides her arms around your waist. Hot and petty words are muttered against your cheek – “...luchshe byt', ya velikolepnyy...” – and so you kiss her properly because you love to hear her speak in Russian, even if you still only know a smattering of what she says, and she kisses you back, kisses you like no one else is around, and her tongue creates a whole new language within your mouth.

A language both lovely and obscene, wonderful and oh so very wrong.

Your dress feels much too tight and her hands are starting to wander. You step away, clear your throat, and she is smirking at you. You can see it, though – a blush of desire crawling up her neck – and your hand snakes into hers once more.

“C'mon then... we don't want those pricey tickets to go to waste, do we?”

And you pull her along, waiting until you aren't facing her to grin to yourself in delight.

/

It's a little bit modern, a little bit old-school, and you don't know a damn thing about ballet but the music is nice and whenever you cut your gaze to the left, she looks entranced. All in all, it is worth it – the fancy clothes, the rich dinner, the balcony all to yourselves – just to see her like this, neither sly nor cold, but simply watching and liking something, as close to innocent as she could ever be, and you feel such a deep swell of affection, so strong that it causes your heart to stutter in your chest, and when did that happen?

In between the murders and the grief? Among the loss and the insanity? It wasn't always there, that much is true; it couldn't thrive in that mixture of lust and hate that sustained you for so long. Obsession breeds so many things, but affection – of the real, strangely tender kind – only grows after time, after acceptance, after something else leaves you and is replaced by... by...

You blink as she looks over at you. You think she is about to chastise you for not keeping your eyes on the stage, but her expression is still one of faint awe and a fine tendril of heat starts to spread throughout your body, stopping at pertinent points to make itself fully known – the base of your spine, low in your gut, the pulse at your wrist. This is nothing new, of course, you know want when it finds you. You know your want of her, it has plagued you and owned you more than once, it has fed you and kept you warm, too.

She smiles at you, gleeful, shades of that day on that dirt road so very long ago – a gun to her lips, a kiss kicking up dust by your feet – and you've been thinking all damn night, despite your best efforts to the contrary, and frankly, you are tired of it.

_You are all I see._

It's been that way for such a long time. Back then, now, tomorrow and who knows how far down the rabbit hole – in the end, who knows how long any of this will last? But it is still true, she is all that you see, especially right now, and that spark within you turns into a flame.

_You are all I want to see._

The orchestra picks up speed below, going from romantic to almost frantic – an ocean of strings, echoing against these opulent walls – and you slip from your chair and into her lap and your lips crash down on hers, no grace or style, some teeth and some pain instead and you can't hear it over music that grows ever louder but you feel her moan into your mouth, a vibration that only makes you kiss her harder.

_You are..._

You drag your fingertips over her neck, down her shoulders, tugging on her dress – if you rip anything, she'll probably want to kill you, but you really don't care – and teasing the top of her breasts with your touch and her whole body pushes towards you, so very ready, and you can feel this delicious ripple of need move through you, this beat-beat-beat of eagerness, and you suck her bottom lip into your mouth as one of your hands dives down – over her stomach and between her legs, pressing the pads of your fingers against her, firm and sure, no matter the nice material you are messing up in the process.

_...all I want..._

You feel her hips lift and start to shakily roll into the pressure you are exacting upon her. You lean away from her lips and they stay parted in your wake, open and inviting, and you watch her stare begin to grow dark, dark and oh so deep, and her longing comes tumbling out of her, voice fraught with wondrous tension – “...god, yes, yes...” – and you want to strip her down, right here, and absolutely fuck her senseless. Fuck her until your name is all she knows, all she can say. Fuck her until all she can see is you, all she can want is you, until you are everything, right down to the air she breathes.

_...you are everything to me._

Crescendos of sound from below, timpani drums booming like thunder, and your palm skirts up her thigh and you slip your fingers inside of her underwear and find her so incredibly wet and she trembles in your hold, the sharp bucking of her hips threatening to toss you both to the floor, and you sink your teeth into her exposed neck and this time you hear her, this time you hear her groan and it reaches into you, buries itself into your very soul so that you'll never forget it, and you love her...

...you actually fucking love her, more than you should, more than is normal... but you love her all the same and when she comes, which is quick and fast and with her begging you to never, ever stop, with your name falling off her tongue like a prayer... when she comes, you almost say it, out loud...

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

Her head falls onto your shoulder, gasping breath hitting the skin, and her fingers clench and release over and over on your arms, and the music has suddenly gone very quiet and delicate and your heart pounding is now the loudest thing in the entire world – the thrum of so many feelings, resounding against your ribcage – and her lips make a lazy ascent from your neck to your jaw and, dear god, you love her, you love her and that's beyond lunacy, isn't it?

“We can call it even then, the ballet for a mind-blowing orgasm... that's fine with me...”

You can hear the smile in her voice, hear the warmth there, hear the fondness – from an international assassin, from a killer, from one of the most vain and cocky people that you have ever met – and holy fuck, you have never loved anyone like this. Not your first crush, all sweaty palms and nerves in 8th grade. Not the first guy you slept with, beautiful in bed with hair in his eyes. Not even Niko, sweet and steady Niko, the one who slipped a band of gold onto your finger.

She kisses you. Hands in your hair, keeping you close. And you can't make sense of any of this, because it makes no sense, it shouldn't make any sense at all. But all you want is her, all you have ever wanted is her – first, as a fantasy, then as a cold and hard reality, and now... oh, now... and you kiss her back, slowly and deliberately, and she'll be gone tomorrow and you'll be back to maps and trails and codewords and endless espionage and no, you can't say it – not yet, not now – hell, maybe you'll never say it and you'll let those words hide inside of you forever.

“Mmmm, let's go. What we are doing is much better than whatever they are doing.”

You can't speak, not really, but you nod your head in agreement and you rise up from her lap, feel your own arousal subtly spike as your legs shift, and she takes your hand – fingers interlocked – like she belongs there, like your hand and her hand are made for one another, as natural as can be, and her thumb brushes over your knuckles – once, twice, soothingly – and she glances over at you and you see it in her gaze, you see that same flutter of awe in her eyes, and you can't say it... not yet, not now...

...but suddenly 'maybe never' seems like the biggest lie you've ever told.

/ / /

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this piece of classical music stuck in my head all weekend and so this happened.


	4. what it feels like to be right

/ / /

Sometimes, you look at yourself from a distance. 

There are new lines, new cracks upon your face, all from where you've been and from what you've left behind, losses and longings leaving their mark. There's a new kind of light in your eyes now, too – a light more like darkness, but you revel in it. You bathe in it at night, alone in your bed and alone in this house, a shadow no longer confined to the outreaches of your body.

Sometimes you look at yourself from a distance and you count the roads you've gone down to get to here – in a new town, in a new job, in a whole new existence – and, sometimes, you find the young girl you once were blinking back at you... the young girl you once were – ruddy cheeks, shallow breaths, palms to something hot and your mother scolding you – boundless in her curiosity, a wild animal sniffing out trouble at every turn...

You got burned all those years ago, fingers too close to the flames.

You still get burned these days, too. You've just learned to love the pain.

/

You watch her bleed. You want to reach out and touch it, touch the source of her living and being, and it is only her cursing that shakes you from that strange, tingling craving.

You hand her string and you hand her gauze. You clip here and you dab there. You glance at the mess she's made, in your kitchen – always your goddamn kitchen – and you'd love to pay someone to clean this up, but then there would be a million questions that you cannot answer.

You save your interrogation for later as she slumps in the chair, eyes bleary and drugged-up, and you coach her into standing, into walking, into falling semi-unconscious onto the couch. You've finally moved to the bedroom for sleeping so you don't mind letting her stay here. Besides, your neck isn't as young as it once was and it began to let you know this fact every single morning you dared to wake up downstairs.

You check that she is breathing. You place a glass of water on the table. You wipe down everything, dirt from her boots and blood from her body, and you scrub your hands clean. You watch her for a few moments, watch her eyelids twitch and her mouth sag open in slumber, and she's no mystery right now, she's so perfectly clear.

But you, you are still a story to be worked out.

/

_You can feel Niko's stare on you one morning, your neck prickling in recognition, and you're not sure you want to know what he is looking for. You've been dating for three months now, it's easy and he is easy, simple, calming, but you get the feeling that things are about to get complicated._

_Not that love is complicated. Or it shouldn't be, right?_

_You ask him, though. “Everything okay?” You don't turn around, toothbrush held in your hand, corners of your mouth minty-fresh as you wait for him to respond._

_“I was just remembering something from last night, something I meant to tell you about.”_

_You sigh in relief. And it is relief, sadly. Weirdly. God, what is wrong with you? You like Niko – a lot, in fact. He makes you laugh. He seems to find your quirks endearing instead of bizarre. And yet, you aren't there yet – that place that means commitment, means living together, means forever and ever. You aren't there yet and you don't want to think about if you never reach that place, if you can never give more than this._

_“Oh yeah?”  
“You were talking in your sleep.”_

_You quirk an eyebrow at yourself in the mirror. You go back to brushing your teeth, fast in finishing, and you finally face him. He's sitting comfortably on the edge of his bed, bare feet and just shorts on and warm-eyed gaze; he's handsome, like a flannel worn in wintertime, secure and sound from the ground up._

_“What did I say?”_  
“Ah, it was mostly nonsense, but I did catch a bit... You said 'you're wrong', you said that a couple times.”  
“Really?” 

_Niko nods his head and he is smiling at you, another charming thing about you that he can adore. But you feel unsettled somehow, as if dreaming you is revealing things awake you isn't ready to talk about. Not to Niko. Maybe not even to yourself or else you'd remember what all that you said... right?_

_“Who do you think you were talking to?”_

_You shrug nonchalantly and step back into the bathroom. You can hear Niko eventually get up, closet door opening, and he is talking about something else now – you mutter a 'yes' or a 'sure', mind on auto-pilot – and you wonder who were you talking to... who was wrong and, conversely, does this mean you were right? Or were you just talking to yourself, to some other version of you lurking beneath this skin you wear?_

_Have you been wrong all along, all this time, and are you ready for the truth to come out?_

/

“Eve... Eve, wake up.”

You jolt up, startled and arms flinging outward in defense, and you feel hands on you. They aren't holding you down, more like they are blocking you, and you hear your name being said again.

You swallow hard and your eyes readjust to the blue-like hue of your room at the edge of dawn and she's in your bed. You don't remember her being here with you, not at first, but then the night's events slowly seep back into your brain. And you catch your breath and you only see the contours of her face, but she is quite close, and without thinking, you reach out and cup her cheek and pull her to you, pull her so that her forehead gently collides with your own.

“I'm very warm. And sore.”

You focus on her words, focus on being aware and not caught in the cobwebs of sleep, and she is burning up, you can tell from where you are touching her.

You'll have to contact a doctor, one that works for the people you both work for. She needs antibiotics and rest and to have her wound inspected. She dips her head down and kisses you and you exhale against her lips and she groans – not in pleasure, but in discomfort – and you move away so that you can hold her head in your hands.

“Lay down. I'm going to get a cold cloth and, uh, some ice-water for you to drink. Then I need to make a call, get you some real help.”  
“I want you to stay, though...,” and her fingers trip over themselves to keep a hold on you, “...you were telling me a story in your sleep...”

You guide her body down to the mattress and you ignore her as she mumbles a bit more, words lost in the folds of your bedsheets, and you call that number you now have memorized, tell someone you don't know but have to trust to come over in about an hour, and then you sit down by her side. You place your palm against her back, close your own eyes and time every breath of yours to hers.

_'...you were telling me a story in your sleep...'_

Some part of you doesn't want to know what you were saying, doesn't want to know the tales you are weaving subconsciously and slipping into the ears of anyone who comes near you. Some part of you doesn't want to know about those other sides of yourself, waiting instead to be shocked by your actions as they suddenly come to life, a sharp turn from where you are and into where you want to be, into who you want to be.

_'you're wrong'_

You wonder if you've always been wrong, a square peg trying to fit into a round hole, and you wonder if the mirror of yourself is laying beside you right now – a knife to the gut, glass to be shattered, agony and desire twined together – and you wonder if she's the story of you and if you are the story of her, all blood and death and wicked joy... a fire to be burned by... a pain to be loved... the two of you, wild animals, cut loose and seeking out the other – desperate in their need, aching and angry all at once.

But she isn't wild in this moment. And perhaps neither are you.  
You, with a woman in your bed and your hand pressed to her spine.  
Her, sweat coating her flesh and curled up in your lap.

And you wonder if this is what it feels like to be right.

/

“What kind of story was I telling you last night?”  
“I'm not sure, but I know it was a good one.”

And she smiles at you, softer than she has any right to be, and you wonder... you wonder.... you wonder.

/ / /

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not concerned with these little stories being sequential in nature. I just go where the mood strikes me. But this feels earlier than the rest, still in this particular future, though. Thanks to PJ Harvey, all mistakes are mine, etc.


	5. no wiser for it

/ / /

It's out of your control. All of this is out of your control, isn't it?

And your hand aches a bit, small bones reverberating, and you don't move for what seems like a very long time. You don't move and everything around you is muffled, as if you have cotton in your ears, and you had no choice, you had to do this, you had to. And your hand hurts, feels frozen and heavy, and you don't move but you do blink – once, twice – and you've seen this color before.

You've seen red like this before, haven't you?

/

_It's normal to go weeks, months even, without seeing her. It's normal to not know all the details, to trust in the process, in the machinations of the faceless entities you serve, and so it is normal to not see her for long periods of time._

_She floats in and out of your life, that's how it's always been._

_You'll be drinking some wine, writing down some notes, nearing to midnight and then there she'll be – like a fucking specter, shimmering into view and then dancing out of the corner of your eye. You'll take her in, feed her and ask very little, you'll take from her what she cannot give to anyone else – her iron-grip on the world, her need to be in charge – and turn it inside out, place your lips to her weaknesses and make her moan into your mouth._

_And then she goes again. And you go back to what you do. In the same circles, but rarely in the same space, the two of you like ships in the forever nighttime of your existence._

_You've grown accustom to it, this back and forth, whatever the motions of this movement is – she, your opus, and you, the conductor. You've grown used to it, this life, and you don't think about giving it up. Because you've already given up one life – it seems so far away now, Niko and boredom and simplicity – and you won't be letting this life slip from your grasp._

_It's your new normal. It's your new everything._

/

Your arm is up, like you are made of concrete or bronze, a statue in the middle of violent actions. And the sounds slowly tumble into your ears, your name being said, and you manage to turn your head – god, it hurts, too – and none of this is in your control, is it? None of this is what you wanted, not really, but it had to be done. It had to be done, because if you had been just one second late... one fucking second off... and you hear your name being said again and your arm is being pushed down and you tear your gaze away from that color, the one you've seen before – red, glorious and horrible red – and she is looking at you like you are an idiot.

“Have you gone deaf? Eve? Hello?”

She's exasperated with you. Or worried. Maybe both. You stare at her, mindless, and you wish you could speak, could ask her to slap you, to wake you up, you want to wake up and have all of this be a dream. Instead, she pries the gun from your hand and then she pushes you along, out of this room and out of this building and into the dark, dark landscape of Kópavogur.

/

_When you hear that something has gone wrong, that someone has been compromised, you start doing what you do best – annoying people with your questions, with your fiery form of doggedness – and you trace her as best you can, using every resource at your disposal, and when you don't get what you want, something inside of you breaks loose from its tether and you find that your inclination to go against the rules is endless._

_You craft lie after lie. You make promises you cannot possibly keep. You travel first to Reykjavík, low on sleep and hungry and anxious, and you meet a contact there and you think you might have been followed, so you take a taxi to one place and shuffle out the back, get another taxi and do this again and again – paranoid on top of concerned, you feel like your body might shatter – and you ignore text messages and heated calls, ignore the potential fallout of your actions._

_That's who you are, after all. A woman propelled forward by impulses, by an aching want, by a fascination that just won't cool. A woman with her own mad little mind, running headlong into disaster._

_This is who you are.  
This is who you've always been._

/

You are sitting in a hotel room and she is eating. She is also sort-of watching you, nudging you to eat and sighing when you don't do as she wants you to. Of course, she wouldn't get it – killing is an art to her, survival second, and never about morality – but for you, killing is tantalizing from a distance, terrifying up close. And yes, you tried it out once, with the woman sitting near you, and you realized that you didn't want that on your hands.

Her blood. Anyone's blood. You don't want that on you at all.

But things were out of your control, weren't they? And you had to make a choice, didn't you? It was some man or it was her and you always choose her. Always. It had to be done, even if you don't like it, even if you really, really hate it, because if you hadn't, then she'd be dead.

She'd be dead and then where would you be?

“What do you need?”

She doesn't usually ask questions and one glance at her face tells you that it makes her uncomfortable to do so, but she is trying and you suppose that is something. She's tried food and, before that, she took your coat off and told you to take a shower, but you didn't do a thing except sit down. She even poured you a drink, twisting the cap off something pungent from the mini-bar, and tucked the glass into your hands.

She's trying and you saved her life and you feel so out of control...

“Take off your clothes.”

...and you are desperate to find solid ground once more.

/

_It takes you two days, two days to find where they have her, two days to figure out what you are going to do – which is stupid at best, fatal at worst – and you find yourself at a building on the outskirts of the city and you don't know what you were expecting, armed guards or snipers or something, but it is relatively easy for you to creep in and sneak around corners._

_You don't know why she isn't dead yet. She should be dead. You should be walking up to her corpse and feeling a sense of devastation that goes against everything anyone else would feel with her passing, but she's alive. Alive and spitting at someone, getting hit in the face, laughing in the midst of her torture, and you admire her as much as ever – cocky asshole, defiant to the very end – but you wish she'd tone it down a bit, for your sake, even if she doesn't yet know you are here._

_But it all changes so fast. You have a gun, handle warmed by your touch, and you have it out but haven't used it, you've never had to use it. You know how, but still, you don't want to have to use it. But things are happening so fast and whatever patience this man has has worn down and the knife is out and she can't defend herself from this and you don't think about what you're about to do – killing someone, you are going to kill someone – and you pull the trigger and his body pitches forward and you can't hear anything anymore and it all happens so goddamn fast._

_He falls. She's up. You stand there. She kicks his bleeding out body. You stand there. She takes his knife and then she looks at you and you just stand there._

_You stand there until she drags you away._

/

She fights you a bit, but that's okay. That's what you want and she senses it. You hold tight, twist and turn and pin her down, and she rolls you a couple of times and you wrap your fingers around her throat and she gasps out in pleasure and, fuck, she makes you feel so amazing, so good that it hurts, and you slide down her body – grip firm, tongue traveling over her skin, sucking one of her nipples into your mouth and pulling back with it between your teeth and she arches into you... and you feel the rush of having her, of taking from her... and then your lips are on the scar, the one you left her with – faint and smooth now, no longer jagged – and you remember that color, so much red, all over your hands, seeping into her top, smeared onto the comforter and dotting the floor... and you remember the smell of gunpowder, the kickback through your arm and into your shoulders... and your tongue dips into her wetness, fingers leaving her neck behind and fluttering to her hips – keeping her there, digging in with the nails – and she tastes so good, so good that you never want to stop, and she tugs on your hair, encourages you, begs you... and you slid the blade into her gut and it felt amazing and it felt awful... and you pulled the trigger and watched his body fall down... and it felt like power and it felt like the last thing to lose, to destroy... and you flick the tip of your tongue over her clit, over and over, and curl one of your fingers inside of her – you feel her tense up, you feel her shake and strain – and you've never wanted anyone like this, not in all your years of living, and you've never needed anyone like this... and when she comes, you squeeze your eyes shut as tears roll down your face.

/

You are awake before her and you stand in the shower, hot water beating down on you. You breathe in and out, steady and sure, and you count the seconds – inhale, 1 2 3, exhale, 1 2 3 – and repeat. You scrub your hair first, body next, and your skin feels raw by the end. The steam builds and builds and seeps out the door and into the room, trails after you as you walk naked to the bed once more.

You sit down and she is still sleeping, honey-gold hair obscuring half of her face, and you see a mark or two on her back – from where you got rough, where she told you to _'do whatever you want, I like it'_ – and you reach out, softly, to touch her there. Wanting to fix it, fix yourself, stop this and have this at the same time. Wishing for absolution, but knowing that it'll never be delivered to you. 

And usually she is the one leaving, content to disappear with the dawn, but it will be you this time. You dress and you gather up your few belongings, you call for a taxi and you stare at her until you have to go – silent in your study, already missing her and yet needing to flee, already torn between what you've held onto for so long and what you've now thrown away – it's you and her, in a liminal space made up of the messiest of loves.

It's you, no longer out of control, but still no wiser for it.

/ / /

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Ultraísta, all mistakes are mine, etc.


	6. you know it

/ / /

_[today]_

There were the days when you couldn't even accept it, couldn't believe that this was you and so you didn't. You ignored and you denied, you were steadfast in your delusions and that worked – at least for a while.

Losing Bill and still being captivated.  
A knife point to your throat and still angry.  
Slapping Niko and still walking away victorious.

There were days when you couldn't stand to look in the mirror, couldn't handle who you had become and so you didn't. You kept your gaze trained a little to the left, off center and off topic and off limits and that worked – at least some of the times.

Going against the rules and still feeling righteous.  
Destroying property and still buzzing with exhilaration.  
Plunging the blade into her body and still aching for her.

There were days when you didn't know a damn thing about yourself, pin-balling from one point to another without rhyme or reason. There were days and days and days, trapped within your own fiction, and you couldn't see your way out of it. Days of being a mess, days of too much wine and too much longing, days where you weren't sure if you were coming or going or if it even mattered anymore.

There were days when you thought you had lost your goddamn mind. Maybe you had, maybe you did...

...and maybe, now, you've just stopped caring.

/

_[yesterday]_

You know what affection feels like, all soft and tender. You know what lust feels like, all hot and bothered. And you know what obsession feels like, all itch and no relief. You know all of these things and yet you still cannot comprehend how you can feel varying degrees of each one for just one person.

You stabbed her. She bled all over you. You loved it and hated it and she shot at you.  
Par for the course, really.

She lived and she made you pay and you sweated and fretted and you have a scar of your own now.  
Scales balanced and all that jazz.

You know what want feels like. You know what need feels like. You know how adoration can turn sour and how shame can grow warm between your legs. You know all of these things and yet you still cannot wrap your head around this addiction to just one person, this fixation on every aspect of them.

You kiss her first. It's almost owed by this point. You kiss her first and she makes you work for it – the asshole – but once your tongue slides into her mouth, she groans weakly and you know that every horrible, mesmerizing moment has been worth it. You want to hear that sound for the rest of your life, the sound of her giving in.

She has a flavor to her skin. Fresh and cool, salty and sweet. She has reactions that you catalog. Sharp intakes of breath, tremors beneath the bones. She has an indulgent smile, big and broad but it never fully reaches her eyes, and still you know she isn't lying to you now. 

You know what a liar looks like, after all. You've lived with one for your whole life.

/

_[tomorrow]_

There's one less strawberry on your plate and you roll your eyes at her.

“Really? There's a whole bowl in the fridge.”  
“But they taste better when I steal them from you.”

And really, what other answer did you expect? Some things will never, ever change. You sigh and she grins and you refuse to show that you still find her stupidly charming. Her ego is already the size of a fucking mountain, you won't add to it – at least not consciously.

“How was Tokyo?”  
“Fine. Good food. Too loud in the morning.”  
“I always kind of liked that, hearing the traffic first thing.”  
“You would. Busy mind, busy surroundings.”

You don't applaud her awareness of your personal quirks, but you like it all the same. You like that she knows you. She swipes another piece of fruit from you and then takes a sip out of your cup, makes a face at your coffee choices – “...always so sugary...” – and brushes by you, robe fluttering around her calves as she goes to shower.

“You could always drink your own, dick.”

She doesn't reply. You didn't expect her to, though.

Your phone buzzes at you. A message from an unknown number, stirrings of another political coup d'état, and you've got a flight booked in your name. People to meet, stories to tell, shadows to slip in and out of. You gulp the rest of your coffee down and toss the plate into the sink, pulling your pajamas off as you go. The bathroom is swimming in steam and you step into the shower without announcing yourself, reaching out to flick your finger against her side.

“Excuse me, some of us are trying to get clean.”  
“It's my shower. I can get into it whenever I like.”

If you had more time, you'd be playful, you'd tease her with touches and spray her with water and laugh at her indignant expression. You'd fuck her, as you have before – right here, with her leg hooked over your hip – but you don't have time, not this morning. She threads her fingers into your hair, looking as enamored as ever by the sight of you, and you used to hate that look in her eyes. You hated it because you had seen it before on yourself; hated it because she was you and you were her and wasn't that just a fucking nightmare?

“Where are you going?”  
“South.”  
“South where?”  
“You know I can't tell you.”

She tugs you closer, the two of you warm against one another, and you watch the water run over her shoulders, down her chest, and she is staring at you so intently. That look used to torture you from afar, haunt you and hang you up, leave you broken and messed up, back when she was a mystery to solve and a killer to catch. Back before all of this became, well, all of this – you and her, here one minute and gone the next, as easy and as strange as always.

“I'm leaving later...,” and she presses her wet thigh between your legs, leaning you both back, and the air gets caught in your throat, “...we won't see each other for a while, I think...,” and it is instinctual to roll your hips, to move yourself against her, to let your lips part and eyelids slip shut in supplication, “...so we better make this count, yes?”

You murmur your agreement into her mouth.

Hours later, you on the plane and dozing with a book in your lap, you feel her everywhere and maybe you've lost your mind, maybe you lost it the second you knew about her or maybe you never had a great grip on sanity in the first place. It doesn't matter. All that matters is all of this – you on this plane, her hands in your hair, the rush and the heat and the danger, fucking her and being fucked by her, the hurt and the understanding, the blood and the beauty...

...and you know what love feels like, all-consuming and dumb and reckless and exquisite and perfectly imperfect and raw and real...

You know love when you feel it.  
You know it.

/ / /

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how a retro-funky song about the state of the world got me to write this, but hey, I don't question inspiration. Also, this is probably as close to "light" as I'll ever get in a fic about these two characters. All mistakes are mine, cheers for reading, etc.


	7. vacation

/ / /

She's not the only one out there. 

She's not the only one you've been tasked to hunt down, to understand, to attach a series of motives and murders to. Sometimes you get just as excited, just as intrigued, as you first did with her; sometimes you marvel at an unknown face, at different tricks on display, and at the deadly ingenuity of someone new.

You get close to your quarry, too damn close – you always do, though – and you get in over your head, gloriously driven and so very reckless, and your car skids and slams into a wall, the chase over as they easily get away, and you curse and you sway in your seat and you pass out to the scent of burnt rubber, surrounded by a cloud of dust and blaring horns.

The following week, you are told to take a break.

You don't do so well with down-time, though. It chafes against your skin, against all the tender places, and leaves you sore. But you don't have a choice, you walked away alive and mostly unscathed – your neck still aches, there's still a purple-ish bruise upon your forehead – and you didn't manage to lose your job this go around, so you should be pleased, right?

Right.

You watch television. You read. You study the details of old crimes already solved. You go for walks and you clean the cupboards out and you have alcohol delivered straight to your door. You eat sparingly and doze constantly and wake up disoriented – _is it 2 p.m or 2 a.m..._ – and you repeat various aspects of all of this for days and days.

Just waiting to be called back in.  
Just waiting to be useful again.  
Just waiting and waiting and waiting.

It's driving you crazy.

/

You come back from the store one afternoon, a smattering of food in your tote-bag, and you find her in your living room. She grins at you and then pointedly looks at the fading shadow on your brow.

“Heard you've been bad, running into things and such while I was away. Thought I'd come by, help you convalesce.”

A soft chuckle passes your lips and you motion for her to follow you into the kitchen. You put stuff into the refrigerator and she snags what she wants of your tidy haul, opening and eating as swiftly as she does everything. You let her get a few more bites in before you swat at her hands, taking the box of salty-sweet snacks from her grasp and she frowns at you.

“So, how'd you hear about my little accident?”  
“A little sparrow told me.”  
“Leave it to you to be specific and not just say 'birdie' like the rest of us...”  
“Why would I want to be like the rest of you?”

At times, you ask yourself the same exact question – usually between dusk and dawn, usually with her in your bed – and you guess that you'll always have a thin tether to normal, to a few black-and-white morals, to something that can't wipe away all the wrongs just because one thing feels so very right. 

Still, you've learned to compartmentalize. You have to. You must.

And you didn't notice her stepping closer to you, not until her fingertips graze over the bruise and then slide on down your cheek, eventually stopping at your jaw, holding you there. God, how does she always smell so good? You feel your eyelids wanting to flutter, to swoon for a moment in her presence, and you just manage to swallow the impulse back into your aching heart.

“How long are you here for?” Your voice, however, betrays you and you sound a little breathless. Her responding smile is knowing yet astonishingly tender.

“As long as you want.”

/

She makes you dinner and she talks animatedly about where she's been – Tangier a few days ago, Cyprus before that – and you feel yourself relax as she speaks. You pour her more wine and she teases you, says you don't have to get her drunk for her to put out.

You smirk at her and fill her glass up anyway.

You both eat, your fork moving quietly to your mouth as she licks her fingers, and she talks about her old days in Paris some, about the little cafes there that she would frequent, about how much she misses good coffee whenever she's in England – “...the British can't do coffee for shit...” – and you agree, even though you prefer tea in general. Your conversation meanders for a while over plates shoved aside, words shifting from business to various pleasures until she's finished the bottle and you feel warm all over, like you've been sitting by a fire.

You are sleepy and full and feeling inordinately content. She's watching you from across the table, legs outstretched and shoes off. You let your head tilt to one side and return her calm stare.

“I think I'd like to go upstairs now. Want to join me?”  
“Well, I am pretty drunk, so I doubt I can resist you.”

You reach out with your bare foot and kick her in the ankle. She doesn't grin at you, but her eyes light up. She's happy. She's happy and you are happy to have her here – partially to end this tediousness you find yourself forced into, true, but mostly... mostly because you are always happy to have her here.

You don't tell her that you'll probably just fall asleep once you both lay down.  
You don't tell her that you like having her close as much as you like fucking her.  
You don't tell her. You don't need to, not anymore.

The two of you don't have to say anything, not after all this time.

You undress her, letting touches stray and linger, and you kiss her – on the lips, on the shoulder, at the hip and at the kneecap – and when she falls back onto your bed, you take a second to look at her, to take her in completely, and you step between her legs, lean down slowly and brush your lips over her neck and she embraces you with a sigh.

“Take off your clothes.”

Her voice is a whisper, hot by your ear, and you turn to cover her mouth with your own, to kiss and kiss and kiss. By the time you pull away, her gaze is blown a little wide with wanting, and you pull off your shirt and shimmy out of your pants, and you crawl on top of her, straddling her hips and resting your hands on her chest.

“Can we sleep for a while?”

She caresses your arm. You close your eyes.

“Yes.”

You smile, eyes still shut. She tugs one of your hands forward and kisses your palm. And then you are both rolling over, into the comforter and into the sheets, and you turn off the lamp by your bedside and she backs into you, her ass nudging your belly – impatient but not overly rude – and you laugh into the darkness of your room, pulling her into your arms.

“Better. You were taking too long.”  
“So needy.”  
“You love it.”

And you do. God, do you ever.

/

One of the things you were most surprised to learn about her is that she doesn't sleep in. You noticed this fact long ago, after those barriers between your body and her body finally fell away, with you waking up around ten in the morning – groggy and sore and maybe a little ashamed of what you did to her, of what you allowed her to do to you – only to find that she had been gone for hours, the space beside you cold and dirty dishes left in your sink.

She likes to keep her body fit, like a fine-tuned machine. She's methodical – warm up, cardio, run – over and over, every morning, up before the rest of the world. You like a slower rise into the land of the living, limbs sluggish and bones popping, squinting at the day and mouth in a permanent yawn.

You roll your neck this way and that as she walks by, towel wrapped around her waist – not around the top half of her body, mind you, and yes, this is just how she walks around your home after a shower and yes, you are still affected by the sight of her, all flushed and damp – and she winks at you and you smile at her, lazy and barely awake and it's too damn early get aroused so you gently tamp the urge down before it can grow.

She likes to cook, She's messy as fuck, but she definitely knows her way around a kitchen. You've been lucky in that department, first with Niko... ah, well, perhaps it is best to not let your mind go that route... She likes hearty meals, nothing simple and nothing light. Butter and cream and oil, pots boiling over and multiple pans, herbs have to be fresh and meat has to come from a butcher. You've lived off of boxed pasta and packaged deli sandwiches, cheap wine and take-out – food never meant as much to you as your work, as your endless obsessions.

She turns her nose up at most of what fills your cabinets, even going so far as to toss out certain things – you tell her to stop, she doesn't listen – but she makes you breakfast. It's delicious and you roll your eyes at her smug, gorgeous face.

She even made you tea. Just as milky as you like it, too.

The first few times that you and her had sex, it wasn't awkward – there was so much lust, so much darkness built up between you both, this was inevitable – but it wasn't perfect or anything. You had to learn the ropes, not of being with a woman, but of being with her. And she had to adjust to you, read your signals, relinquish control and realize that she liked it that way, to give in and to know that in doing so, you'd do the same. 

She enjoys digging her nails into your skin. She adores your attention to detail – if you pick up on something that makes her breath hitch, makes her spine lift upwards, makes her eyes roll back – you do it to her again and again, until she is begging you for salvation, for your sweet sweet mercy. She always wants more, you can feel it in her touch, but she is considerate as well. She won't push the point, even as her tongue rounds the curve of your ear and her thigh slides quietly over your own.

You boss her around in bed, with your words and with your hands, with your tongue dipping in and out of her, and she'll do anything you ask, anything you want. She is so completely yours in these moments – not a killer, not a prisoner, not Villanelle nor Oksana...

...but yours and yours alone, gaze fixed upon you in wonder, legs coiled about your hips and fingers weaved into your hair...

She belongs to you – and you to her – in those moments. And isn't that what you've wanted all along?

To belong somewhere.  
To belong to someone who gets you, who gets all of you.  
To belong to someone just like her.

/

You are doing some work, at least what they've allowed you to keep your eyes on during your 'vacation', and she lurks over your shoulder – making a comment or two, judging whoever you are tracking down on their style and technique – but you shove her out of your office. You trust her, you do, and yet, you don't trust her about this kind of thing, not fully.

It's best to keep this aspect of your lives as separate as possible. 

You know most of their names now, the heavy-hitters of this world-wide espionage that used to haunt you, and you've watched a few get caught, seen some of the carnage left in their wake. You know what she does and you know what you do – the murky waters of your life, of her life, of all the places where the two of you intersect – and it is for the best to keep the details vague, to exchange information when it is needed and then move on to safer ground.

The danger of what you do draws you in, just as it always has, but you find that you are settled in your own weird little way.

You have your home, always being worked on and rough around the edges, and you have your work, your insanely risky but still stupidly enjoyable work, and you have yourself – new wrinkles and gray hairs to greet you, but a brightness to your eyes all the same, the headiest of addictions leaving you simultaneously wired and worn out – and you wouldn't change a thing.

And you are happy, like truly fucking happy.

You are happy and you have her, right now. In your chair. Leaning against your counters. Rummaging through your closet. Tugging blankets off you in the middle of the night. Arm around your waist, breasts pressed into your shoulder blades. Lounging on your back porch. Criticizing your books, devouring your movies. Sharpening a knife as she talks idly of wanting to go back to Italy. Stretching when she is bored, ligaments pulled taut in the sunlight. Fucking you on the living room floor, as eager for your orgasms as she is for her own, her grin like a tattoo on your neck.

You don't tell her that you could live like this forever.  
You don't tell her that when she goes, you'll miss her.  
You don't tell her that this past week with her has been goddamn wonderful.

You don't tell her. But you don't need to, not anymore.

After all this time, she knows.

/

She's packing a bag just as you get off the phone, your suggested sabbatical now at an end, and you'll have to go shopping again just to have food in the house – you won't be cooking any of it, but it's the principal of the matter.

Besides, you like to have at least a few items on hand. For her sake.

“All set?”  
“Mmm-hmm. You?”  
“Yes. Finally.”

The look in her eyes is one of fondness and you wonder where she'll be going next, if you'll get to keep an eye on her or not, how long it'll be until you can both do this again.

“Such a busy brain. You kept me up every night with it tossing and turning beside me.”  
“I don't think it was my brain keeping you up every night.”

She lowers her head a bit and grins at you and you feel it, the warmth of desire and of playfulness, you feel it throughout your bloodstream, and yes, it'll never be regular, this thing between the two of you, it'll never be you and her into old age, knitting or playing canasta, drifting peacefully into the next life.

The two of you will never be like everyone else. You'll never be like the rest of them and neither will she. And it's okay. It's better than okay. It's... it's...

“I love you.”

You weren't planning on saying it. Then again, you can't plan saying those words. They tend to tumble out of you without your consent anyway. Her eyes widen just a fraction, so you know that she heard you and the thing is, you don't need to hear it back. It took a long, long time, but you know her now, you know what she can and cannot do, what she can and cannot say.

The thing is is that you know that she loves you. But maybe she doesn't know you feel the same, maybe you need to say it, maybe you should have been saying things all along – just in case you hit another wall and don't come back, just in case she runs out of her nine lives, just in case the world decides to end.

“Okay.”  
“Okay?”  
“Yes, good, I mean, uh, I mean –”  
“What is happening to you right now?”  
“Stop interrupting me, you are so bad at listening.”  
“Fine. Continue then.”

And you find yourself smiling at her, stupidly amused at flustering her, and you love her. You love her and you are going to stand right here until she says whatever she can say, whatever words she can pry from her own heart and apply to her tongue. You love her and you're going to watch what you said sink into her psyche and let it wreak havoc with her head. 

You love her and now she knows it.  
You love her and now you've said it.

“I mean to say me too.”  
“You love yourself? Yes, I know this.”  
“You are so annoying sometimes.”

You love her and you walk over to her and pull her into your arms and you close your eyes and breathe her in – your favorite assassin, your crazy catalyst, your greatest fascination, the end of all things normal in your life and you are ready to accept it, to accept that this is how you feel and this is who you feel these things about and you don't need to hear her say it back – you love her and you had to let her know, just in case, that's all.

And her arms wrap around you softly.  
And you can feel the beat of her heart.  
And she doesn't need to tell you, not anymore.

After all this time, you know.

/ / /

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so here's this thing. Eve is a champ. Brave little toaster.  
> Inspired by the song 'Takes Some Time' by The Brummies. All mistakes are mine, etc. Enjoy!


	8. all that matters

/ / /

You've never seen her cry. At least, not for real. There was that one time – you with your damp hair and her eating your food, a crocodile weeping by your side – but that was ages ago. You wonder, sometimes, if she knows how and if she does, if she decided to stop one day, to drop the need for tears like a bad habit.

You wish you could do that. You've come close, but never quite close enough. You still feel so much, feel so much all the way from the tips of your fingers to the bottom of you feet to the marrow in your bones. You feel rage. You feel loss. You feels happiness. You feel hunger and heat, you feel depressed and dark.

You feel everything.

You wonder if she can do the same, you wonder what it would take, and if she could, if she could feel as much as you do, would you still want her? Would you have ever looked at a photograph of her kill – a man bleeding out from one tiny wound in just the right place – and been as mesmerized as you were if she were even a bit like you?

Not that she is completely different from you. Or you from her, for that matter. You both love getting your way, you're both smarter than so many others around you, neither one of you know how to let go or how to fully forgive, and when you stare into her eyes, you see something familiar mirrored back to you.

Something intangible but oh so real. Something beyond desire, deeper than longing. Something more twisted and more lovely than anything you have ever seen in your whole entire life...

...and it brings tears to your eyes, whatever it is, and you can feel the warmth of these tears sliding down your cheek and that reminds you just how cold the rest of you is and these tears fall down just like you do, your body no longer in your control, and you don't know how you can feel more pain than you already do, but hitting the hard ground lets you know just how much more things can hurt.

You open your mouth and you try to say something, her name or to curse or to just say something, anything will do, won't it? If this is it, if whatever you were trying to do has led to this and if there's nothing left but the gaping maw of endless nothingness ahead of you, then you want to say something, anything, anything at all.

But you can't.  
You can't do a damn thing.  
Not now.

/

_“I don't do what you do, okay? But that doesn't mean I don't feel things. I just don't fall apart. I go on because that's all I can do. I go on.”_

_You've had this talk before. It's not new. None of this is. And normally you understand, normally you don't even care that much, but every once in a while, it matters to you. Maybe for your own sake, maybe for your own sense of balance, maybe for the used-to-be morally conscious you._

_She's not going to stay. Not tonight. She dislikes arguments, even the gentle kind. Even after all these years, she can still pout like a spoiled child if she does not get her way, and you've long given up the urge to convince her to stay._

_You have your own pride to contend with. You have your own fights not worth fighting and you are perfectly fine with sleeping alone. You've done it enough, after all._

_“I know. Doesn't make it any easier on me, that's all.”  
“God forbid that things are not easy for you.”_

_Oh, now she's feeling truly irritated and a part of you wants to rise up to the bait. Perhaps she thinks that you'll get mad enough to kick her out. Or perhaps she thinks that a spark of mutual anger will boil over into lust and you'll both fuck the words out of each other._

_You've done these things before, too. One gave you really good orgasms and the other gave you weeks of annoyance. But not tonight, tonight you just shake your head, finish your glass of wine and walk away._

_She does not follow._

/

You don't know how it can be so loud and so quiet at the same time. But that's exactly how it is, a booming in your ears and a deafening silence in your head, a strange science that you cannot explain – and you couldn't explain it, even if you could talk. Which you can't, not one fucking word.

You catch it all in flashes now and everything blurs, everything is an unholy mess in your mind. You hear a crash and someone screaming, you hear the beating of drums and see strobe-lights, you see something red closing in on you and you feel sick to your stomach, you feel like the world is spinning underneath you and you want something solid to hold onto.

Suddenly you are face first into the ground and you cry out – oh, you can do that, but you can't speak, that's just great, just great – and you can actually feel the blood leaving your body, feel everything slipping further and further away and you don't remember how you got here, you don't remember why this is happening at all, you don't remember a goddamn thing.

Maybe it's better this way.  
Maybe it's about time you forgot.

/

_It was in Moscow, that's when you decided that nothing else mattered. All that you cared about, honestly, was catching her. Catching her and maybe killing her. Maybe helping her. Maybe you didn't know what you wanted to do with her, but you had to find her. You had to, you just had to._

_You remember that first night, ramped up on the chase and eager and determined, ignoring the man you left behind, ignoring the nagging doubts, losing sight of the dead in the midst of your own mission. And you couldn't sleep. And you didn't want any more alcohol or food or hot showers. You paced and you read over the files for the hundredth time. You wondered what she was doing, if she was asleep or if she was awake, if she were alone or with someone, if she was thinking about you._

_And it was somewhere after one in the morning that you thought about her face. Her wicked smile. Her horrible, beautiful eyes. The sensation of her so close, breathing you in. The tip of a knife against your flesh. You thought about her constantly, relentlessly, and you knew that something must be wrong with you, something must have been terribly wrong with you because you were turned on._

_By her. By the fear. By the power. By what you were so near to but had not yet touched._

_It was in Moscow that you fucked yourself while thinking about her. Just the once. It was complicated and it was delicious and you vowed to never, ever do it again._

_Never, ever again._

/

Someone's talking.  
Or not. You can't be sure of anything anymore.  
You think your eyes are open.  
But if they are, then it is really, really dark.  
You can't see. You can't see and you can't tell if someone is talking or not.

You are moving, though.  
At least, you think you are.  
You feel numb, mostly, but something is being moved.  
Your arm. Your hand, you think.  
Someone has your hand, that's what you think.

It's nice. Nice to be held.  
You are so cold.  
You want to tell them to hold you closer.  
But you can't talk and... and...  
What were you thinking about anyway?

Oh, that's right. You're dying.

/

_You've never heard her laugh, not until this moment, and it is so ridiculous, so unexpected, that your only reaction is one of wide-eyed shock. But she is laughing, at a not-so-funny moment in a film, and isn't that just like her? Isn't she wired in just the right way to be wrong according to everyone else?_

_It warms her face, this laughter. It's genuine and relaxed and when she finally acknowledges your stare, one eyebrow gets raised in response._

_“What? He got hurt, it's funny.”_

_You just nod your head, finding a slow smile growing on your lips, and she is still sort-of chuckling and her body sags closer to you. Close enough to be intimate, but only unconsciously. It might be the only time that she hasn't used proximity as a chance to have sex with you – not that you've been complaining, you've been incredibly agreeable in fact – but this is different. Her shoulder pressed into yours, her hair falling down and tickling the edges of your arm, and her legs tucked up into her chest._

_And you wonder if anyone has ever seen her like this._  
And you wonder if you are the only one given such access.  
And you wonder when you fell in love with her. 

_“Stop watching me and watch the movie.”_

_You do as she says, but only because you don't know what to make of your feelings. And you need time to sort all this out. You might need a fucking lifetime to sort all this out._

/

“You don't get to do this, you arsehole... Are you hearing me? You never fucking listen...You do not get to do this. You don't. Not to me. You don't get to do this to me, you stupid...”

You want to tell her to shut-up.  
You want to see her dumb face.  
You want to hear her laugh again.  
You want to fight with her forever.

“...stupid woman, what were you thinking, eh? That you could just, what, stop it all from happening? That you could save me or something? I don't need you to do that, I don't need you to save me, Eve...”

You want to smirk at her.  
You want to roll your eyes.  
You want to nudge her shoulder.  
You want to kiss away her fear.

“...Eve? C'mon, you are not allowed to do this, I told you not to... You need to open your eyes, okay? People are coming and they are going to take care of you, alright, and you just gotta, uh, you gotta... Eve? Fuck... Look, I'm going to press a little harder. It's going to hurt and you cannot get pissy with me, okay? Or you can... Get mad, okay? Get mad at me and open your goddamn eyes...”

You want and you want  
and you want and you want  
and you want want want  
you want everything when it comes to her.

/

How long has it been? Since the start of you and her? How long has it been now, surviving the death of friends and the end of a marriage, the loss of jobs and the earning of new journeys, the countries crossed and the secrets kept, a knife in your hand and bodies left behind her – how long has it been?

You counted up the days, once, and it wasn't anything. Just a drop in the ocean of your life so far.

You were someone else before her. You had someone else lurking inside of you, too. Someone cold, someone calculating, someone capable of so much destruction. She has always been some version of who she is now, rough where now she can be refined and cool where she was once hot-headed – well, some of the time. No one is perfect and who are you to judge?

And how long has it been? It feels like ages, it feels like you've known her for all of your days. You know the lines on her hands and the shape of her delight, the curve of her lips and the terror in her gaze. You know how she breathes when you are inside of her and you know how she yearns for something simple, something pure, something soft and reliable. You know her hunger, her anger, her intelligence, her silliness and her sins.

It feels like you know her better than you know yourself.

_The first time she kissed you – like truly kissed you – it was snowing outside and she had a nasty wound down the side of her face. She showed up, after at least a year since you had last seen her, and you froze when you saw her standing there by your front door._

_She hadn't made contact with you since you started your new job, the one that made her bosses and your bosses quite close, and you hadn't reached out either. You knew you had not killed her and that's all that mattered. Her name would pop up in case files and reports, as talented within this new world as she was in the old one, and you kept a surreptitious eye on her exploits. You rose up the ranks, too, solving this and that and she continued to kill with aplomb, the two of you drawing ever nearer to one another – again._

_You let her in. She tracked mud into your carpet. You were renting and you'd have to pay out of pocket to get that cleaned. She drank your alcohol and you offered to clean her up. She let you. You stayed away from her stare, focused on soap and water and hydrogen-peroxide, and she sighed heavily, like you were disappointing her._

_And then she stilled your hand, forced you to look at her, and she kissed you.  
Right on the mouth. No skill or finesse, just barreling into your lips like she'd chicken out otherwise._

_And that's when you decided to just kiss her back. Just kiss her back and be done with whatever story you'd been telling yourself all along – the story where you didn't want her, didn't dream about her, didn't ache to pull her apart and spend your days figuring her out – and you kissed her back._

God, how long has it been?

 _You think you might have loved her for a long, long time. Needed her. Desired her. Hated her._

A few minutes? Eons?

_You think she might have loved you for a long, long time, too. Loved and loathed you in equal measure._

Decades or hours? Seconds or...?

_You think you might never know the truth. Not in this lifetime. But does it even matter? With her lips against yours, does anything else matter at all?_

...how long has it been?

Oh, that's right. Not long enough.

/

You've never seen her cry. 

This might be your best chance of catching a glimpse of whatever sorrow would look like on her face, the slant of sadness against her mouth or within her dark gaze. You try to focus, outside of your skin and your muscles and everything else, you try to focus on her face. But there's so much to see around you: two or three bodies, contorted and broken on the ground, and flickering lights hitting the wall from the small window, and the stains of red running over concrete.

You try to focus on her face. A bruise coming to life along her jaw, god, she's always getting hurt.  
You try to focus on her face – and lips moving, knuckles white, blood seeping past the fingers – you try to focus, you've got to focus, you need to focus.

You've never seen her cry. You're not sure why you want to see it. To prove she is human? To prove that you have this one thing in common? To know that, if you were gone, she'd care? To know that, if all this were to end, she'd give a damn?

You try to focus. On her face. Dirt on her cheeks. Brow furrowed.  
You try to focus... on her face... and you've studied her for so long now, every grin and every frown, the sheen of youth and the shattered spaces she's barely aware of... and you try to focus, to focus on only her and not how cold you are, not how motionless you are, you try not to focus on yourself.

“No... please, no, don't do this... Eve, I can't... not without you, I can't...”

You try to focus.  
You try and you try.  
You try and try and she seems so far away and you want to reach out for her, tell her it is all okay, that none of this matters, and you focus on her face – her gorgeous, damnable face – and you watch her as she is left behind, slumped on the floor, staring at nothing and oh, how her eyes shine, like stars exploding, and you see meteors falling, a slow descent before they disappear and she is so beautiful, so beautiful, so beautiful...

...and if this is the last sight you ever see, then whatever comes next is just fine by you.

/

_You had a dream about her. You cut your way into her body, held her beating heart in your hands, and you told yourself not to drop it. Don't drop it, don't you dare drop it. You are so reckless with precious things._

_The name 'Niko' tattooed on your wrist, burning you. Bill, hanging on your shoulders like an overcoat._

_“You said you'd kill me. You didn't say you'd keep me alive, too.”_

_Her voice washes over you and you smile, you smile and press her heart to your chest. You want to stitch her to you, bind you to her, and then maybe it would all make sense. She laughs at you. You laugh at yourself. It's funny how much you are willing to throw away for this, for her. It's funny how much you feel like crying._

_“Don't cry.”_

_You look up at her and only see yourself. You look up and you are alone. But her heart, you still have it, and that means something... doesn't it?_

/

“...don't cry...”

You can't see anything, but you can feel so much. You feel every inch of yourself and every inch of yourself is in agony. You are hot, you are sweating, and you want to claw your own skin off your body. Everything is blinding white, even with your eyelids closed, and you wonder if 'blinding white' is the color of pain. 

“...don't cry...”

It's your own voice that you hear, though – weak and cracked – and talking hurts but you can't seem to stop your lips from moving, tongue thick and syllables slicing along your throat. A new sensation grips you, presses warm and wet touches to your palm, again and again and again.

“I'm not crying, I don't cry, okay?”

You can't see anything, stupid eyes won't open just yet, but you think she might be lying – just a little bit – and maybe you don't ever have to see it, maybe you don't want to, in the end, and maybe all that matters is that she is here and, strangely enough, so are you. 

"...okay, love..."

And maybe that's all that has ever mattered.

“...okay...”

/ / /

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to 'Joan of Arc' by Anna Calvi & 'Catalyst' by Tess Roby.  
> I was going to make this nice and dark, but I couldn't follow through. I suppose my truly angst-filled days are over.  
> All mistakes are mine, etc.


	9. connecticut

/ / /

You've not been back here in a long, long while. And some things have changed – obviously – but there are corners you recognize, streets that have aged but somehow remain stuck in time; there are in-between spaces that you remember, where you'd wait for the bus or where you would shop, a bar or two still alive, weathered wood pockmarked with ancient bottle edges.

You used to drink there. You flirted there. You got rid of a few sorrows there.

You lived here. Once. It feels like a million years ago now, but you used to live here. Live here, study here, work here, grow up here. You used to dream here, too. You dreamed of adventure, of excitement, of how to shake loose the trappings of normalcy, of how to be amazing.

Are you amazing today? Oh, you're not sure, not really.  
But you do feel larger than this town, sharper than the curves you once drove along and somehow taller than the trees, your world-weary eyes blinking slowly within this verdant American summer.

_Are you amazing today, Eve?_

Maybe, you think. Maybe so.

/

It's not often that you are asked to help out from across the ocean, but the timing was fortuitous – you had just wrapped a few cases, tied up a few pesky details, and you had finally put the finishing touches to the guest bedroom after weeks and weeks of putting it off.

There was nothing holding you back and you are told that it is always good to keep up polite relations, shake a hand or two, lend your brain for common goals, and so on and so on. You like being counted on, too, it feels nice to be appreciated, it feels satisfyingly warm in your gut. They selected you and you alone, you're smart and damn good at what you do – their words, not yours – and you packed up a bag just like that.

And though it's been over two months and you haven't heard a thing from her – which is how it goes, you know this and no, you aren't worried, what's the point in worrying – you leave a note on the kitchen counter, just in case:

“Working. There's food in the freezer. If you leave a mess, I will kick your ass. E.”

/

Admittedly, they are in a shambles when you get there. You have so much to sort out – the kills are made to look sporadic, bordering on random – and the details have been lost along the way. You have to retrace steps, pour over photos and badger people. You earn an angry glare or two, but you don't really give a fuck, do you? Because if they were doing their jobs well, they would need you here to fix things.

You don't get to your hotel room until after midnight. You fall asleep after taking off your shoes, still dressed and drooling on less-than-nice cotton pillowcases. When you jolt awake, neck hurting and confused, the clock tells you that it is four in the morning. You are starving and cranky and you wander downstairs, too early for the buffet, but never too early for caffeine and something from the vending machine. Breakfast of champions, coffee drowning in fake sugar and a somewhat stale honey-bun.

You check your emails. You scan the news from overnight. You glance at the blank text icon, not a message to be found. You sigh and toss your phone onto the table.

And you yawn as the rest of Connecticut wakes up.

/

It's been a full week and you take a day for yourself. You eat too much and you drink cold beer, you drive down to New Haven, go to Long Wharf and watch children run around without a care, gaze at birdwatchers with sunglasses pushed up into their hair, and you feel the sun on your skin as you walk closer to the water.

You don't know why it took this job to get you back here. Or perhaps you do know, but you can't think about it now. You were looking to cut your own path, to make your father proud, and you stumbled to a strange kind-of standstill once he passed away. You put your ambitions on hold, leaving whatever you would have done here to find and figure out your grief in England.

And then you met Niko.  
Then you got married.  
So the story goes, the one that everyone knows.

You stop where the rocks tumble into the Long Island Sound and remember so many things conveniently forgotten, so many moments buried... everything you ever wanted and craved, all the ways in which you have succeeded and failed in getting to where you are right this very second...

...and would your father be proud of you? Or would he look at you like you are a stranger?

You're such a fan of questions that beg for answers, but you're not sure if you'll ever know the truth behind these inquiries. He can't see all that you've lost, all that you've sacrificed, and he won't be able to talk you out of whatever insanity you dive into, won't be around to judge you from afar as your stubbornness drives you towards danger.

He wouldn't have cared for Niko. This is something you know.  
But he wouldn't have cared for Oksana either.

Standing here, tuning out the sound of families and focusing on the water as it laps against the shore, you wish – for a brief, aching moment – you wish she was here. You could hold her hand and ignore the roll of her eyes and you could tell her all about your life before she was in it, before you tracked and traced her. 

She wouldn't care, since it wouldn't be about her, but you'd tell her anyway.

/

“Hey, I don't normally say this, but well done. Really. We were up shit creek without a paddle before you got here.”

You smile and shrug your shoulders, tossing away a collection of take-away boxes and styrofoam cups.

“Yeah, you were.”

He laughs a little bit, murmuring “I know, I know...” as you shut off your laptop and shove it into your bag. He waves at some people past you, others taking off for the night. You've gotten them leads – real ones, not the bullshit ones they were desperate to make real – and you might have annoyed the hell out of them, since you are not known for mincing your words or suffering fools these days, but they have a killer to catch and, in the end, it's all good.

“We're, uh, going for a drink and to pretend we don't do this for a living. You want to tag along?”

Honestly, most of you doesn't want to 'tag along', you'd rather take the world's longest bath and sleep for ten years. But you are also weirdly restless, maybe you are riding a bit of a high – hours of searching and combing through crime scenes, chasing shadows... It's an addiction. You've come to realize that that is a part of your nature. And when you finish a job, you are left a lot like a boat tethered to a port – bobbing but going nowhere, pulling at the rope with every ripple.

“Okay, sure.”  
“Yeah? Great.”

You aren't stupid. You see his little grin – Mark, that's his name – and perhaps he thinks you'll be looser once you've been drinking or maybe he even picks up on the fact that you are still wired, still caught up in the sensation of the hunt. You get it, it's a rush and it is overwhelming and when it's done, you need something to take the edge off, to bring you back down to earth.

You sigh softly and start walking out of the office, with Mark trailing behind. He talks about a few things, random and small-talk-ish things, but you interrupt him as you both reach the doors.

“I know a place I used to go to when I was in college. You know the Griswold?”  
“Yeah, definitely.”  
“I'll meet you all there.”  
“Oh, uh, I can give you a ride if you want?”  
“That's okay. I'd rather drive myself.”

He nods, some of the vague heat in his eyes dimming at an avenue calmly closed, and you nod in return before you make your way to your car. You sink into your seat, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. You think of tomorrow, of flying home – to your home, the one you've put back together, piece by piece, the home that is yours and yours alone – and that thought makes you feel centered, removes some of your own lingering tension.

You weren't sure what home would look like after Paris. After you almost killed a person. After you lost your job and your husband. You hadn't been on your own in a while and what if you didn't like it, what if you ended up regretting all your actions, what if the silence drove you nuts, what if you killed yourself with your own shitty cooking – so many what ifs.

But instead of floundering, you flourished.

You are a hothouse flower, finally allowed to bloom and go wild.

/

It's after your second drink that your phone buzzes in your pocket and once you dig it out, squinting in the bad lighting to see the number, you excuse yourself from this group of men who are trading war-stories and bragging rights – excuse yourself from Mark, who sits a little too close to you at the table – and step outside and into the slightly muggy night.

“Hey.”  
“When will you be back?”

Cutting right to the chase, even sounding anxious, and you lean against the bricks that make up this building, the Griswold Inn, one of the oldest buildings in all of Connecticut. This place has seen battles and revolutions, has carried the passage of time on its back and is still upright, steeped in history, some of it your own.

“Tomorrow.”  
“Ah, okay. Good. It's boring without you here.”  
“Boring, hmm?”  
“Yes.”

You love the sound of her voice, how it can be so cold one minute and so full of longing the next. You've missed her, but then you always do. You'd never ask her to stay, you know she cannot, and maybe neither one of you would like it much if you were always around one another. But what you have with her, it just might be the realest thing you've ever had with anyone.

“Have dinner waiting for me.”  
“You think you can tell me what to do so easily?”  
“Mmm-hmm...”

A group of young women move past you, laughing and talking loudly, smelling of perfume and a little bit of pot. Their smiles shine out bright in the evening, arms linked in camaraderie, and you were never like them. Not back then, not now either. You remember late nights, though – books closed, notes put away, joking with people you've not seen since you left for England, pressing your lips to some boy's mouth like it might be something, like he might become someone to you – oh, it all feels like forever when you are that young.

“Okay. I can do that. But only for you.”  
“Good. I want you to do it only for me.”

She breathes out, soft and warm in your ear, and you can almost feel it brush against your skin. And god, you want to be kissing her, you want to curl your fingers into her hair and keep her close, you want to find her waiting for you – in your bed, in your home – and oh, it feels like forever, doesn't it?

She feels like forever. This feels like forever.

“Forget whatever you are doing and come home now.”

You laugh happily and you can hear the grin in her voice and you think that, maybe, it feels like forever to her as well.

/

You dream about your father. You haven't done that in so very long. But everything is familiar – the look in his eyes, the line of his jaw, his voice echoing in your head – and you want to tell him about who you have become. You want to show him your scars, within and without. You want him to hug you, just once before he goes away again. You want him to say he loves you, to stick around and say the words, to smile at you and let you know that you haven't fucked it all up.

Would he be proud of you? Would he care?  
Would he pick apart the fibers of your life and find it lacking? Or would he see it as it truly is – a tapestry of triumphs and mistakes, well-worn and still growing?

You dream about your father and he stands by the water.   
You dream about your father and he is fading, shimmering like a mirage as you run to his side.  
You dream about your father and about the life you used to have – the plans you made and then left behind, the promises you whispered to yourself and then broke, the autumn-lined streets of your youth and phones always ringing in the distance...

...you dream of the past, present for a moment, and then laid to rest as you board the plane.

/

You stumble in, dropping your suitcase at the doorway, and it is silent. It is blissfully quiet and you sag against the wall, the one you stripped of old wallpaper and soon painted white. You smell strong spices and you smell onions, it's a warm and full scent and your stomach growls in response.

There is wine on the table. One of the windows is open and a nice gentle breeze flutters in, catching wisps of honeysuckle upon its trail. She isn't facing you, spoon stirring in a pot, but you know that she knows you are here. It's something in her shoulders, the faint way they settle – just a bit – once you are watching her.

You want to eat.  
You want to sleep.  
You want to tell her every single thing.  
You want to not talk at all.

But you opt for the unspoken want, the one that propels you forward and the one that moves your hand to her waist, sliding around to her front, your palm against her belly, and you kiss the edge of her neck.

“Don't distract me. This is a critical cooking moment.”

And you laugh into her back. And you scratch your nails lightly over her clothed body. And you kiss her neck one more time, for good measure.

“I'll leave it to the master then... I'm off to shower.”

You peel your clothes away as you go, leaving them in a haphazard path up the stairs, and you glance at your own face in the mirror as the water goes from cool to hot and you sigh into the growing steam. 

_Are you amazing today, Eve?_

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

And so you are home again.

/ / /

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listened to 'Ipswitch' by Anjimile and caught serious feelings of domesticity, but in a roundabout way. Also 'Nobody Gets What They Want Anymore' by Marlon Williams - which is lovely if sad. Anyway. All mistakes are mine, snagged some Eve info re: her dad, etc. Enjoy.


	10. you felt everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> eve p.o.v. // a dark little nugget // 'Because what did you feel? Well...you felt everything.'

/ / /

You've seen the results. More times than you can count. You've seen the aftermath – here's where the storm hit, broke the walls, caused death, red stains on the floor – you've seen what she can do.

And it used to scare you. Maybe it still does. In a way.  
And it used to disgust you. Maybe it still can. Sometimes.

But you've never seen the attack, the moment where safe goes to terrifying; you've never been in the eye of her rampage, of the sheer glee she bathes in when she kills. You've kept your distance – for your own sake, sure, and for the job itself, for the soft and subtle lines that neither of you are ready to cross.

You've kept your distance. Because you must. Because what if you can't stand her then, stripped of the fine fashion and the blunt quips, smile coated in blood instead of the wetness between your thighs? What if you can't hold her close, knowing beyond a shadow of a slim doubt, what she can – and loves – to do?

Or, more disturbingly, what if you see it all and want more?

/

You are paid to keep her in check. Paid to keep her in line. It can be tedious. It can be exhausting. But then you have this other life – just like always, just like fucking always – and she's in your bed, taking up all the space, and she is kissing you, lips a delicious battering ram against your cheek, and she's your work and she's your pleasure and fuck fuck fuck...

One morning, she's chattering on about something and you simply walk away. Walk away while you still can. Walk away while you are still yourself and not just a moon in orbit of her existence. Walk away because so much of you wants to dissolve into her, wants to know her to the point of being in her goddamn bones.

She comes after you, indignant and petulant, and you fight in your backyard about nothing, about everything.

“Don't be so boring, Eve.”

And, really, she couldn't have insulted you more if she had tried.

/

“What do you need?”  
“I need you to... to...”  
“Hmm? Yes? I'm waiting, tell me.”  
“Just fucking--”  
“Fucking, yes, this is what I am doing.”  
“Asshole...”, and she digs her nails into your thigh, you wince and burn and hate and adore, and she nips at you, teeth for teasing, “...if you don't make me come right now...”  
“What? You'll pitch another fit?”

You close your legs around her head, squeezing as hard as you can, and you can hear her muffled laughter and the sound ripples through your body and you get what you want anyway.

Hours later, as she dresses slowly, she glances at you over her shoulder. You don't look at her but you feel it all the same. You feel her everywhere. As you have since almost the beginning – her face, her cleverness, her psychotic moves, her everything – you feel her from your head to your toes.

“Come with me.”  
“I can't, other jobs to take and new killers to keep an eye on.”

She grins at you and you want to smile at her so badly that it hurts. Your mouth twitches anyway.

“Forget them. I'm still your favorite.”

She's right, of course, the bastard. You stretch instead of answering and she falters like always, torn between her own sense of smugness and the lines of your body. And she lays her hand on your hip, tender when she is anything but that.

“Come with me. See what I do and maybe you'll... relax.”

You admire her so much for being careful with her words that you nearly agree right there, fuck the job and the responsibilities, you'll pack a bag and watch her work – from start to finish this time – and you'll take the chance, you'll soak it in and see if what niggles at you is the fear of losing her or the fear of one day becoming her.

She nearly has you. All of you. So completely, so thoroughly. It's so close that you can taste it. And so can she.

“Maybe next time.”

You rise up to kiss her lips and she sighs, resigned, onto your tongue.

/

You are not a killer.

You have rage in you and you have fascination, you can wound with your words and your callous actions. You got close to the edge – just once, just with her – and the satisfaction, the sensation of revenge and justice and besting the very best...

...it was thrilling.

It was thrilling and you felt exalted, as if all the shifting and turning of your world had led to this very moment. It was heat and it was power. It was heady, better than any drink or any sex you had ever had.

And then it was chaos. Utter and total chaos. And shaking. And horror. And rich, red blood – on her, on you, on the bedspread, on the wooden slats, under your nails, buried in your clothes.

The high went away then, replaced with regret and terror and confusion. And you've spent an inordinate amount of time tucking all of it away, storing it somewhere deep and dark.

 _I am not a killer_ , you say to yourself. Every day, you say it.

 _Are you sure_ , you whisper back.

/

You don't call her often, but when you do, she always answers. Like clockwork – nine in the morning, midnight, somewhere around four a.m. – she always answers your calls.

Until she doesn't. And you don't know who was watching her this time, but you've already decided they are all incompetent compared to you. Everyone knows that she is yours – yours to control, yours to chastise, yours to praise, yours to chase – but still, no one has heard from her since two weeks ago.

You call. She doesn't answer.  
You trace and track. There are eyes and ears everywhere and yet they only come back with hints, with rumors, a flash here and there.  
You call. She doesn't answer.

“If you are fucking with me, I swear to god... I'll kill you myself.”

It's the last message you leave before you board a flight for the last location she was supposed to be at. And you dream of her, of mirrors and oceans, of your mother's voice, of ice and of someone tugging you, tugging you endlessly to some distant shore – 

_is it you... you or me... do you still feel the knife in your stomach... in my hand... are you lost... or am I?_

\- and you jerk awake, hot cloth held to your face from a tired looking flight attendant, and Kangerlussuaq looms below.

/

You've kept your distance. You've stayed away from what makes her vital, what makes her live and breathe. You've kept a space for you to still retreat to, in times of need.

You are not a killer. _I am not a killer._

You've kept you distance. For your sake. For yourself and yourself alone. You've held back from knowing the final piece, from sinking so far into it that you know you'd never come back out.

You are not a killer. _I am not a killer._

You've stayed away, even as she's asked and even as she has taunted. You've kept the fire near you but never let it touch you. Not again. Not again, that's what you've been doing.

_I am not a killer. I am not a killer._

You don't long for blood. You don't want to watch the light go out of a stranger's gaze. You don't want to hear their last gasp for air. It's not fun. It's not a game, no matter what she says.

_I am not a killer. I am not her._

You've kept these lines in place. You've kept them there for a reason. She wants you to lose yourself in her. And a part of you wants the very same. God, do you want it... But every time, you walk away – physically, mentally, whatever way you have to – and you keep your distance.

And yet.  
And yet you are wild.  
And yet you are curious.  
And yet. And yet. And yet...

You've kept your distance and she's let you do so for as long as she can. You can't really blame her for getting impatient. After all, you know her as well as she knows herself.

/

You are not a killer. But time is running out and she is hanging over your shoulders, smelling of copper and of joy, and there's one man left and he has seen your face – your face, the face no one is supposed to see – and she's taunting you and she's challenging you and it was all a set-up, all a way for her to get you here, to get what she wants, and you hate her.

You hate her more than you've ever hated anyone.  
And the knife is in your hand. And her body is pressed to your back.

His eyes are crazed, fearful. There are other people, other dead people, in this room and her other arm is keeping him against the wall and she is smiling – you can feel it, just like you can feel everything always, always feeling so so much – and she licks your ear.

“Now you'll know. Now you'll know and we can be done with this.”

She thinks she is helping you, which is hilarious and bizarrely sweet and a million shades of wrong. And done with what, you wonder – with death? With these dark fascinations? Or with this thing between them? This love and this loathing?

Or will they just be done, a task handled and a job finished?

You hear sirens. You hear his teeth grinding. You hear her breathing. You hear your own heart – fitful, excited, broken – and he pushes back and her fingers clutch at his throat and he shouts out something in a language you can barely speak and you don't feel rage and you don't feel strange wonder and her other hand wraps around your hand, your hand with a knife in it.

“Now, Eve, now. Otherwise, we are caught and there's no more of anything.”

You think of Bill. You think of Bill and how he said yes to everything. You don't think this is what he meant, though. You don't think this is what Bill meant at all. But then the man knocks your both back and she slips off of you and it is just your hand and just your knife and you kill him.

You kill him and you watch as you drive it past the shirt and into the body, splitting skin and you see his face contort and crumple and you feel... you feel... and she slides up to you, takes the knife away, and you watch as she moves, as her arm goes up and then out, swift and sure slice underneath his chin, and she holds herself there – like a painter with the last stroke to the canvas, breath held and eyes wide open, completing a masterpiece.

And you feel... you feel... you feel everything, always feeling everything, all the time...

And you hate yourself. Maybe more than ever.  
But not nearly as much as you should.

And she looks at you like you are magnificent, like you hold the world in your hands, like she's in awe of you. And she's so beautiful and so terrible and you hate her. Maybe more than ever.

...but no, not nearly as much as you probably should.

/

You walk away. For a while. Because you don't know who you are anymore. Because the lines are gone now. Because you don't have anywhere to hide and what you've found out about yourself is too complicated, too dark, too messed up to figure out.

You walk away to where she can't find you. And you hurt her. Again. It's the last thing you want to do and it's the only thing you can do. You don't know if she'll be waiting when you return. You don't know if anything will ever be the same again.

You walk away because you can. Because you must. Because you love her and because you can't stand her, can't stand yourself. You walk away because you are a killer and maybe you are okay with it. You walk away because you aren't okay with it, because you are not okay with any of this.

You walk away because so much of you wants to stay.

/

_“What did it feel like?”_  
_“What did what feel like?”_  
_“When I... stabbed you...”_  
_“It hurt. A lot.”_

_You sigh in frustration. You're not sure what answer you want to hear, but it's not this one. She brushes your hair back from your sweaty face._

_“What did it feel like for you?”_

_And you swallow hard. And she watches you closely. And you're not sure what answer you have to give, but you can't say it. Whatever it is. So you kiss her instead and she lets you._

_She lets you ignore all this and you are so stupidly grateful. Because what did you feel? Well..._

_...you felt everything._

/ / /

**(end)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't sure if I'd put this one would be a part of this particular story collection or not. But darkness is a huge part of these characters and their 'relationship', so it wouldn't be a real collection without this moment of exploration. Thanks to music for the inspiration, all mistakes are mine, and cheers for reading!


	11. and then...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> eve p.o.v. // continuation from chapter 10 // 'You were a mess with her and you are a mess without her.'

/ / /

_It's amazing how cold it is here._

Well, amazing and a little bit awful. The wind is fierce and the rain hits your face with force, wet stinging nettles that continue to come as a cold, sharp shock every time. You've been pacing for a while, turning your back to the weather when you can and then taking it on once again.

You feel a mess. But you've been a mess for days now. Weeks upon weeks even. You were a mess when you took off. You were a mess with blood long gone from your skin but never from your mind's eye.

You were a mess with her and you are a mess without her.

_It's so fucking cold here. What's taking so long?_

You got a call, the kind you are used to getting – out of the blue, but totally expected all the same – and you flew from here to there, details scant but incoming, and she's been fine without you. Out of your house, as far as you know, and still doing her job – the one you finally came to grips with, the one that made it possible for you to have her in your life – and you keep track of her, a peripheral glance or two, and then you go back to studied ignorance. But you got a call and they need you to deal with her.

You, the one who wrangles the beast to the ground; you, the one who tipped your head back and let her devour you. You have to deal with her because you've been dealing with her all this time, you took her on, you took her on and didn't think about what you'd lose or what you'd gain along the way. Not really, not fully...

Another blast of chilled wind and rain coats your already wet face just as headlights crest the top of the road and your numb fingers form fists by your side and you blink into the storm and see her staring back at you from behind the glass.

/ / /

She doesn't say anything. Neither do you, though. And the road is bumpy, dips along cracking pavement and potholes full of muddy water, jostling you both as the skies grow darker.

The texts said she was on probation – _whatever that means_ – and to cool things down, reassess her mental state – _I'm not a psychologist, what the hell do they want me to do_ – and then report back. Take a few days, the last text said, take a few days and then... and then...

It's stuffy in this car, hot air blowing on the windshield, and now you feel damp and muggy. Nothing feels comfortable. Not the car, not the weather. Not you. Not this silence between you both. Not this kind of silence – stifling, heavy, tense. It's not been like this in a long, long time. And fuck it all, you keep looking at her and you know that she knows it, even if nothing in her face reveals it; you know she can feel every single graze of your eyes on her.

A sigh slips past your lips. Her knuckles grow white around the steering wheel. And then... and then...

_I've missed you so much that it hurts._

She hits the brakes hard and you lurch forward, seat-belt digging into your chest as she quickly turns the car off and leaves you there, steps fast as she walks into the small home you'll be staying in for the next 72 hours.

And then you sigh again. And then you sit there and wish your body didn't ache, wish you could erase a whole multitude of sins, wish you were anywhere but here.

/ / /

You killed someone. You tried it once, with her, but it didn't take. And you were glad about that – in the end. But you killed someone, not out of defensive of your life or hers, not really. She had it all in under control, you know this, and you could have stepped away. You could have stepped away and let her finish things.

He moved. She fell back. You drove the knife into his stomach.  
His blood was everywhere. You did it because you could.  
You did it because you wanted to know if it feels as spellbinding as she has claimed, as it once felt to hear her say you couldn't and then you proved her wrong.

_I killed someone. And it felt like nothing._

The thoughts tumble around your brain as you eat your food, as you watch her eat, as you pretend to read over messages on your phone as she slowly nods off on the tattered couch in the corner of the room. She still hasn't said anything to you, just handed you a bowl of what looked like stew of some sort and then it was like you weren't there anymore – eat, drink, bowl in the sink, and now sleep.

So you pace. You read the texts again. You watch her for a bit. You think too much. Repeat.

“I had forgotten how loud you are.”

You stop and look at her and she's watching you, face a blank mask. Mostly blank. There's something at the edge of her mouth, a tiny shadow of a tell, like she wants to smile and hates the thought of it happening; the ghost of amusement, skittering about the two of you out of fear. And you want to say that you are sorry for leaving, sorry you couldn't handle it. You want to kiss her, you want to forget everything and just kiss her and just forget the rest of the whole complicated world.

“Sorry.”

Maybe that's a start, though.

/ / /

She tells you about the latest job, where things went right and where they went wrong. She claims that it wasn't a big deal - _“I took care of it, I don't understand why they are so pissy”_ \- and you can see it from both sides, rolling your eyes at her and at bureaucracy at the same time. You talk, she talks, and it is all very pleasant, very polite, and you say what they want you to say and you ask the questions they want you to ask and she answers you – voice bored, stare drifting – and at some point, you stop saying anything because you are starting to bore yourself.

“Let's go for a walk.”

You don't wait for her to reply, just get up and shove your boots back on and bundle yourself up in your coat and head out the door. You don't look back to see if she follows, but somehow you know that she will. You know that she wants to, against whatever her head is telling the rest of her body, and it only takes moments for her stride to match your own.

And it is the two of you under the clouds, fog low over the hills and mud and grass sticking to the soles of your shoes, and every breath taken cools the burning in your lungs and you combat the urge to take her hand, to tug her along and into running, to run away from this safe house and never come back. Instead, you lead and she keeps pace, feet steady on old paths zig-zagging across the countryside and neither of you are talking but it feels better now. It feels calmer now. It feels like you could really say the things you want to out here, if you really wanted to.

Thunder booms in the distance and you both look towards it.   
And you think you catch the glimmer of lightning in her eyes.

Then she kisses you.  
 _Finally, finally, finally._

/ / /

She always looks like she's been desperate to touch you, like any second spent holding back is a second too long, and you suppose that's just part of her mental make-up. A girl born impatient, seeing no reason for taking her time, and so she swallows you up, takes you down whole. That's how she has been from the start, gobbling you up with her eyes and with her confessions and with her mouth hot against your flesh; that's how it has always been between the two of you. Like there isn't a enough time in the day for what you both need, there isn't enough time in the night for what you both desire.

A match-head lit, burning up the outline of her body, and she dips into your river of gasoline.

God, it is so wrong. Not morally, the moment for that has long passed you by, but there's no way something like this, something like what they have, can ever be considered right. And you sink your teeth into her neck, latching on for all you are worth – which can't be much, not anymore – and you feel her heart beating past her breasts and she wraps her legs around your hips and you've caught lightning in a bottle, haven't you?

Something electric. Something deadly.

And she comes apart at your caress, arcing upwards like a bow string pulled taut, and your lips kiss the scar you gave her as your fingers move in deeper and you remember knives and you remember blood and you remember death and you remember losing so much and gaining something new and there are dark places that have seeped into the rest of your world now.

You are something electric, too. You are something deadly these days, too.

She tugs your hair, nice and hard, and your nails cut up her sides and she groans into your mouth once you return to her, and she keeps you close – closer than close, like she wants to fuse your bodies into one – and you don't know how you ever believed that you could live without her. You've been lost for such a long while, lost when your father died and lost in England and lost in a dull job and lost in a marriage that was meant to fix you... you've been lost and then she found you. She found you and nothing has been the same since.

She shoves her nose into the folds of your skin, breathing you in where your belly rises and falls, one arm around your ribcage and thighs overlapping, and you feel your eyelids fluttering.

“Don't do that again.”

Don't leave me. Don't walk away from me. Don't hurt me.   
Don't pretend or lie. Don't hide. Don't act like you aren't exactly who you are.

“I won't.”

/ / /

She offers to teach you how to use a knife better. More control. Dexterity and movement. And you say maybe, maybe later, but you say it with a small grin and you mean it and she lets it go. She lets it go when she is the most impatient person you've ever known and if that's not love, then you don't know what is.

One more day here, then back on the road. You, back to London, and she'll be on another plane to somewhere. And then, back home – your home, her home, the floorboards you both walk on and the bed you both sleep in – and then...

...and then you'll embrace the shadows and welcome that wicked knowledge, and then you'll wipe away the smoke you've been lingering in and find yourself again, the real you, and then...

...and then  
and then...

_...it'll be the two of us in the unknown._

/ / /

**(end)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jessica Pratt's new album is everything. Thanks to that!  
> And thanks for reading all of this, we've reached the end and I'm good with that.   
> All mistakes are mine and cheers!


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